My cup is not made of gold
not made to drink or hold
but lets the rain fall gently through
green threads sewn
where silver drops of dew
cling to strands of lilac bloom
where music spills from maple bark
and rustling leaves send forth
syllables like words
of ancient warmth that ripens red
then blows away like dust
while sunlight filters gently through
and day turns slow against the sky.
First published in Blueline.